


Alors On Danse

by foldingcranes



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 15:52:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15754884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foldingcranes/pseuds/foldingcranes
Summary: Widowmaker wakes up one day with her thoughts muddled.





	Alors On Danse

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this small piece a while ago for the Spiderbyte zine.

Widowmaker wakes up one day with her thoughts muddled.  
  
She thinks it's nostalgia, or that's what she'd call it if she were keen on naming and categorizing any feeling that wasn't anything but the vaguely numb feeling that was her normal state of being.  
  
There's been this... tingling in her chest since they were sent to Talon's HQ in France, an unsettled feeling that comes from being too close to the place that apparently witnessed her birth. A thousand lives ago, Widowmaker had the shape and the name of someone else; wore the skin of another woman. _Amélie._  
  
She can still see her. Sometimes she'll pass by a mirror, look at her reflection from the corner of her eye and see a woman standing in front of her, smiling and pale, clad in white.  
  
Widowmaker does not know this stranger.  
  


  
The old chateau has been abandoned for years by now. In the dead of the night, the faded facade of the mansion projects an air of sadness and disrepair, vines clinging to dusted walls and weeds stubbornly populating the front yard. There no more flowers, no more sculptures made from the hedges. Just the natural decay that comes from abandonment.  
  
Seeing that the windows were too high, and guarded by metal bars, Widowmaker breaks down an old wooden door. All it takes is a few well-aimed kicks, and she's granted entrance.  
  
Once she's inside, the silence is the first thing that gets to her. It's crushing and heavy and speaks of too many things she doesn't feel able to acknowledge. She walks through hallways and past corners that were well lived, once. Memories seemed to flood her mind: her hand runs over the door frame to an old bedroom, on it are carved lines to measure her height as she grew up; a big table filled with people and laughter; an open room covered in mirrors and her, spinning in an elegant pilé.

She spends a good portion of the night spinning, and spinning, and spinning, as if she were nothing more than a spinning top, too wound up to stop. She stands at the center of the room with the mirror and sees herself spin from every angle, a leg raised.

(She's a toy, and the world is her personal music box.)

After she tires of dancing, she continues her exploration of the house. That's when she finds the portrait. It's obviously a commissioned art piece, and it rests proudly above the mantel, the only image decorating the walls of the living room space.

The woman smiling there-- it's her, and yet it's not. Widowmaker's chest hurts at the sight of this woman whom she used to be, this person who lived a completely different life. In the portrait, her fingers are curled around her husband's, and they stand side by side, looking at each other. The painter perfectly captured the look of lovesickness that nests in the eyes of newlyweds.

Widowmaker was happy, once. She thinks. It's a very foreign feeling.

"Fancy meeting you here," a voice behind her startles her. When she turns, she's greeted by the sight of Sombra standing there, covered in moonlight and holding two bottles of wine. "I hope you don't mind, but I found the wine cellar."

"Lovely," Widowmaker smiles, barely. The corners of her lips are slightly upturned, and she walks towards Sombra, taking one of the bottles in her hands and examining it. "My favorite."

"I know you only like the good stuff," Sombra smirks, then takes a seat on the floor, cross-legged. She looks up to Widowmaker, waiting until she joins her there, sitting as if they were enjoying a campfire.

"You followed me," Widowmaker hums, breaking the silence. It's not a question.

"I was curious," Sombra replies, voice strangely soft and honest. "You've been… _spacey_ , lately."

It's very unlike Sombra to worry like this. Widowmaker wonders if she is being honest with her, if she can risk opening up to Sombra without surrendering herself to betrayal and reprogramming.

("Where've you been?" Sombra had asked casually.

Widowmaker was standing outside her quarters; her coat and hair were dripping, still smelling like the moss in the cemetery. "Out."

Sombra had smiled. "Don't forget an umbrella next time".)

She steals a last glance at the portrait, aware of Sombra's heavy glance on her face, then opens her bottle of wine with a small knife and takes a long sip. "It's hard to explain."

"Try me," Sombra says, understanding and firm. Stubborn. She won't give up on this easily.

Widowmaker closes her eyes, breathes deeply, and chooses to have another drink before she continues speaking. Then...

Then she bares herself open.

"I woke up, and there was this… ache. This empty space in my chest," she explains as she rubs her hand over her sternum, trying to soothe the invisible wound. Sombra reaches for her, fingers curling around Widowmaker's delicate wrist.

"If you need to put a name on it," Sombra contemplates out loud, "I think it's _grief._ "

  
"Grief," Widowmaker rolls on her tongue, breath warm with the taste of wine, lips lax and soft.

"I think it's the only thing that feels like that," Sombra wrinkles her nose. "Like… emptiness."

Widowmaker sneaks a glance at the portrait. She stares at the smiling woman who wears her face. At the tall, gentle-looking man standing by her side.

"You may be right," she concedes. Sombra clinks her bottle against hers and they both take a long drink.

"You know, grief is… easier to identify in others," Sombra pauses, looking at the bottle with squinted eyes. "You can see it in smaller gestures, in stuff that not everyone can easily see."

(A pink calaverita hanging from her keys. A music box sitting on top of Widowmaker's bedside table. The golden ring that hangs from Reaper's neck.)

Widowmaker frowns, pursing her lips. "I don't know what to do with it."

_I don't want it._

"I can help," Sombra smiles wickedly. She puts the bottle of wine on the floor and scoots closer to her. "Close your eyes."

She is full of distrust but, with nothing to lose, Widowmaker does as she's told. Soon, the warmth of Sombra's lips covers her own in a gentle, slow-paced kiss. It's soft and careful as if she were to be spooked at any moment. She nips at Sombra's lips and raises a hand to her face, cupping her cheek. There's no light, not even a candle has been lit, and their only company for the night is the moonlight.

Widowmaker didn't expect the night to go on like this, but she finds herself feeling grateful. Sombra's hands rest on her shoulders now and she thinks she remembers now, the simple exhilaration that comes from kissing, the barest of excitements bubbling to the surface in the back of her mind.

She wants to feel everything.

(She wants to feel nothing at all.)

It's impossible to escape the rush of sensation that takes hold over her and she guesses they're all the same, at Talon. They're all pretending to play the role of perfect weapon, even if they keep slipping.

(Reaper thinks no one sees him look over his shoulder as if he were waiting for someone to cover his six.

Sombra has an altar hidden inside of a supply closet. And Widowmaker--

Widowmaker dances.)

When they part for air, lips slowly separating, she opens her mouth only to be silenced by one of Sombra's fingers booping her nose.

"Hey," she smiles, proud of their little escapade. "It's okay. This is our secret."

A slow, mischievous grin blooms on Widowmaker's face.

"Our secret."

 _Just this_ , Widowmaker thinks before surrendering. _Just let me keep this._

**Author's Note:**

> [Say Hello!](https://twitter.com/foldingcranes/)


End file.
